The Waterfall

by Carla Neggers

  “Maybe we both will,” Jack said. “And Lucy, I didn’t mean to imply—you should go on with your life. I know that.”

  “It’s okay, Jack. We miss you, too. We’ll see you soon.”

  Madison disappeared inside with the phone. Jack was good to both her children, Lucy reminded herself. And they loved him. But if she’d stayed in Washington, they’d have stayed in Colin’s world—Jack’s world—and Lucy knew she wouldn’t have survived. She’d needed to make a clean break.

  She grabbed another handful of beans. Rob joined her on the porch, flopping down on a wicker chair. “The Newfoundland trip just filled up. Do you want to start a waiting list?”

  “Makes sense.”

  “And J.T. told me he thinks he wants to come on the father-son trip, after all.”

  “Did he? Well, good. I hope he does.”

  They talked business, and Lucy snapped beans. She and her kids had a good life here, she thought. That was what mattered, not Jack’s approval—or even Colin’s.

  Sebastian arrived in southern Vermont late in the day and checked into a clean, simple motel on a historic route outside Manchester. Far enough from Lucy, but not too far.

  He’d made a detour to Washington first and checked with Happy Ford, a new hire Plato had put on Mowery. She was ex-Secret Service and very good, but only Plato would hire someone with a name like Happy Ford.

  She said Mowery had visited Senator Jack Swift at his office this morning. And disappeared.

  Sebastian warned her not to underestimate Darren Mowery. “Assume he’s better at what you do than you are.”

  “Do you think he knows I’m on him?”

  “He knows.”

  Sebastian took his cardboard cup of coffee out onto the small patio in front of his motel room and sat on an old-fashioned, round-topped metal chair. It was painted yellow. The chair for the next room was lavender, then pink, then blue. Cute.

  There were brochures in his room for the sites in the area—old houses, covered bridges, Revolutionary War stuff, outlets, inns, resorts. He thought about renting a big, fat inner tube and floating down the Battenkill. It seemed like a better idea than spying on Lucy.

  He’d never been much of a tourist or an historian. Or much of a Vermonter. Born here, more or less raised here, generations of family buried here. Daisy had insisted she had an ancestor who’d fought at the Battle of Bennington, which actually had occurred just over the border in New York state. Daisy had liked the aura of being a native Vermonter.

  He’d left his boots and his hat in Wyoming. He was an outsider there, but he really didn’t give a damn.

  The evening air was warm and slightly humid, but pleasant. The rounded hills were thick with trees, and as he sat with his coffee, he felt as if they were closing in on him. Or maybe it was the memories.

  He threw the last of his coffee into the grass. “Lucy, Lucy.”

  He’d done a lot of dumb things in his life. Falling for Lucy Blacker on her wedding day was one of the dumbest. Coming out here was probably right up there with it. A bullet left on her car seat. It was kids. It wasn’t Mowery.

  Sebastian walked out into the fading sunlight. Tomorrow, he thought, would be hot.

  He’d gotten rid of his guns. No point having one, seeing how he didn’t hunt and had no intention of shooting anyone. People thought he was kidding when he said he’d renounced violence. He wasn’t. Darren Mowery had been his last victim.

  A mosquito landed on his arm. He flicked it off. Who the hell needed a gun? If he was going to find out who was intimidating Lucy, what he needed was some serious bug spray.

  Five

  Lucy grabbed her binoculars and headed across the backyard, over the stone wall and into the field. She had on shorts, a T-shirt and sneakers. The air was hot and humid for southern Vermont.

  Two more days without any incidents. She was in good shape. An early start that morning had caught her up on her work, as well as freed her to agree to a local inn’s request for her to lead a family on a canoe trip down the Battenkill. Madison and J.T. had gone with her, and they’d had a great time. She’d felt so…normal.

  Madison was off to Manchester to see a movie with friends, J.T. at the Kileys to play Nintendo with Georgie and spend the night.

  Lucy had the evening to herself.

  The field grass was knee-high, mixed with daisies and bright orange hawkweed, black-eyed Susans, frothy Queen Anne’s lace. With a line of thunder-clouds moving in from the west, she couldn’t go too far into the woods. The storm should, however, blow out the heat and humidity that had built up through the day.

  An old stone wall marked the far edge of the field; beyond it were woods of oak, maple, hemlock, pine and beech. Lucy climbed over the wall and stood in the shade of a huge maple, her binoculars slung around her neck. It was a perfect climbing tree. Up high in its branches, she would have a tremendous view. She could perch up there and bird-watch, enjoy her solitude.

  What the hell, she thought, and with both hands, she reached up and grabbed hold of the lowest branch. She’d always loved climbing trees as a kid growing up in suburban Virginia.

  When she lived in Washington, she’d had a job organizing unique trips for a Washington museum, and it had seemed such a natural way to combine her degree in anthropology with her love of the outdoors. She’d discovered a passion and a talent for understanding what people wanted and translating it into trips they couldn’t stop thinking about once they opened up one of her brochures, something that had served her well when she’d decided to go out on her own. Many of her Washington clients had followed her into her own business.

  She swung onto a low branch and climbed higher, the maple’s rough bark biting into her hands. Bark had never bothered her at twelve. She moved carefully, having no desire to fall out of a damn tree on her evening off.

  She found the perfect branch and sat down, her feet dangling. Even without binoculars, the view was spectacular—woods, fields, stone walls, brook, her yellow farmhouse tucked on its narrow stretch of reasonably flat land. Not too far from here, Calvin Coolidge was buried in a hillside cemetery so as not to take up precious flat land for farms.

  Balancing herself with one hand on the tree trunk, Lucy removed the binoculars from her neck. Maybe she’d see a hawk floating in the hazy sky.

  But as she put the binoculars to her eyes, she heard something in the woods around her. She went very still. The noise didn’t sound like a squirrel or a chipmunk, or even a deer. A moose? The pre-Wyoming incidents came back to her, making her question what she would ordinarily take in stride. A noise in the woods. Big deal.

  Without making a sound, she swiveled around to see what was under and behind her. Brush. More trees.

  And Sebastian Redwing.

  She gulped in a breath, so startled she lost her balance. Her binoculars flew out of her hand as she grabbed the tree trunk to keep herself from falling.

  The binoculars just missed Sebastian’s head. He caught them with one hand and looked up. “Trying to kill me, Lucy?”

  “It’s a thought.” She caught her breath, but was still shaking. “Damn it, Redwing, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “You wanted my help. Here I am.”

  The heat and humidity must have gotten to her. She was imagining things. Sebastian was konked out in his hammock in Wyoming with his dogs and horses. He wasn’t in Vermont.

  She swooped down to a lower branch and swung to the ground as if she were twelve again—forgetting she wasn’t. She dropped in a controlled but hard landing. Pain shot up her ankle. Her shirt flew up to her midriff. She swore.

  Sebastian wrapped an arm around her lower back, steadying her. She could feel his forearm on her hot skin.

  His gaze settled on her. “Easier going up than it is coming down.”

  “I’ve been climbing trees since I was a kid.”

  He smiled. “That’s bravado. You almost sprained an ankle, and you know it.”

  “The key word is almost. My
ankle’s fine.”

  If she’d injured herself, he’d have carted her off to the emergency room. There’d be no end to her humiliation.

  “What were you doing up there?” he asked mildly.

  “Bird-watching.”

  “Birds have all hightailed it before the storm hits.”

  He still had his arm around her. “You can let go now,” she said.

  “You’ve got your footing?”

  “Yes.”

  He released her and took a step back. He wasn’t dusty. The dirty cowboy hat and scuffed cowboy boots were gone. He had on good-quality hiking clothes, including hiking boots. He was lean, tanned, fit—and alert, Lucy thought. That was the first thing she’d noticed when she’d met him all those years ago, just how alert he was. She could feel him taking in everything about her, from her sneakers to her wild hair.

  He was worse than an ex-CIA agent. Maybe he was an ex-CIA agent. She suddenly realized she knew very little about him. What if she’d taken her promise to Colin out of context, and Sebastian Redwing was the last person she should have asked for help?

  She adjusted her shirt. “I thought you weren’t interested in helping me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then go back to Wyoming.” She stepped past him and climbed onto the stone wall. “I didn’t mean I wanted your help as in you sneaking around my woods. I wanted your opinion.” She looked back at him, breathing hard, fighting for some way to assert her control over the situation. “Do note my use of the past tense.”

  “Noted.”

  She took a deep breath. “I sure as hell didn’t want you scaring me out of a tree.”

  “I didn’t scare you out of your tree. You scared yourself.” He stepped over the stone wall, tall enough he didn’t have to climb up over the rocks piled up by long-ago farmers, probably his ancestors. “You should find out what you’re dealing with before you react.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m good with canoes and kayaks and snapping beans. I’m not so good with men jumping out of the brush at me.”

  He smiled. It was an unsettling smile, not meant, she felt, to reach his eyes. Which it didn’t. “You nailed me with your binoculars.”

  “It wasn’t deliberate.”

  He handed them back to her. “I used to climb that tree when I was a kid.”

  His words brought her up short. He was, after all, Daisy’s grandson. He’d sold this place to her. It was more his turf than hers, no matter whose name was on the deed.

  Lucy went out into the field, more comfortable on open ground. “How does it feel to be back here?”

  He shrugged. “I’d forgotten how pesky mosquitoes can be.”

  She slung the binoculars over her neck. “I never meant for you to come here.”

  “What did you mean for me to do?”

  “Tell me I wasn’t in any danger.”

  There was still nothing she could reliably read in his eyes.

  “And how was I supposed to know that without coming here?” he asked.

  “Instincts and experience.”

  “In other words, I was supposed to release you from all your worries from the comfort of my hammock.” He eyed her a moment, then added in a low voice, “Believe me, that would have suited us both.”

  “I don’t want you going to any trouble on my account—”

  “Too late.”

  With a groan of frustration, Lucy started across the field. She took long strides, hoping to separate herself from Sebastian Redwing as fast as possible.

  He didn’t say a word. He didn’t come after her.

  She stopped dead in her tracks and swung around. He was just a few yards behind her, as tall and immovable as an oak. And she’d all but invited him here. “You can go back to Wyoming now.”

  “I can do whatever I want to do.”

  “You’re trying to spook me. Well, forget it. I’ve been living out here, just me and the kids, for the better part of three years. I don’t spook easily.”

  “What about the bullet through your dining room window?”

  “That’s over. It was nothing. I was wrong.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. No incidents since you got back from Wyoming?”

  “No. None.” She frowned, wondering if she’d be less agitated if he weren’t so damn calm. She was letting him get to her. She never let irritating people get to her. “When did you arrive?”

  “A couple days ago.”

  She held her fury in check. “Where are you staying?”

  “Motel.”

  “So you’ve had two days to spy on me.”

  He smiled. “Why would I spy on you? You’re not the one who shot up your dining room.”

  She searched for a way to rephrase what she knew—what he knew she knew—he’d been up to. “You’ve been keeping an eye on me,” she said.

  He started down through the field. “Your life’s pretty goddamn boring.”

  His way of saying she was right. “To someone like you, maybe.” She marched after him, her binoculars swinging on her neck with each furious step. “Did you follow me on my canoe trip?”

  “Nope. Sat up here and watched the woodchucks have at your garden.”

  “You did not.”

  He glanced around at her. “Check your beans. You’ll see.”

  She bristled. “I do not need a bodyguard.”

  “Good, because I’m no good at bodyguarding. I was just getting the lay of the land. Lucy goes to work. Lucy picks beans. Lucy takes care of kids. Lucy runs errands. Lucy has a glass of wine on her porch. Lucy goes canoeing.” He yawned. “There you go.”

  “It’s better than lying about all day in a hammock.”

  “No doubt.”

  She was so aggravated, she could have hit him. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The sky darkened. The wind picked up. She reined in her emotions. She didn’t want to be out here alone with him when the storm hit. “Go back to Wyoming. If I catch you on my property, I’ll call the police.”

  “They won’t arrest me.”

  “They will—”

  “I’m Daisy Wheaton’s grandson. I’ll say I’m here visiting the ancestral home. They’ll probably hold a town barbecue on my behalf.”

  She stared at him. “Have you always been this big a jerk?”

  He grinned at her. “Nah, I’m a lot worse than I used to be. Plato didn’t tell you?” He winked; he gave no indication of giving a damn what she thought or what she wanted. “See you around, Lucy Blacker.”

  Lucy turned the shower as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed herself with a lavender-scented gel made by a local herbalist who wasn’t, she was confident, related to Sebastian Redwing.

  Daisy Wheaton should have willed her place to the Nature Conservancy instead of to her miserable grandson.

  Then I wouldn’t be here, Lucy thought.

  Maybe she’d have moved to Costa Rica with her parents, or stayed in Washington and made her father-in-law happy.

  Well, Colin had never said Sebastian was a gentleman or even a reasonably nice guy. He’d said he trusted him. He’d said Lucy could go to him if she needed help. It was a mistake, obviously, but Colin couldn’t have known.

  She dried off with her biggest, fluffiest towel and shook on a scented herbal powder that matched the gel. The thunderstorm had subsided, but she could still hear rumbling off to the east. The air was cooler, less humid. She was calmer. Her encounter with Sebastian had left her spent, drained…and feeling more alive than she wanted to admit.

  She pushed aside that uncomfortable thought and slipped into a dressing gown she’d picked up for a song at an outlet in Manchester. Black satin, edged with black lace. Quite luxurious. She’d sit up in bed and read until Madison got back from her movie.

  She started into the hallway, but stopped abruptly, catching her reflection in the mirror above the old pedestal sink. She turned and stared at herself in her black satin. Since Colin’s death, she had seldom taken the time to think of herself simply as a woman. A
s a mother, an entrepreneur, a widow, an individual getting her life back together after sudden tragedy, yes. But as a woman who might attract, and be attracted to, a man, no. Not again. Not after Colin, not after the searing grief she’d endured. Never mind that she was still only thirty-eight.

  “Good Lord,” she breathed. “Where did that come from?”

  It had nothing to do with leaping out of a tree at Sebastian’s feet. The feel of his arm around her. She’d have to be mad to be attracted to him. Her sanity, her rationality, her common sense had seen her through the ups and downs of the past three years. She wasn’t about to throw them out the window because of one little touch.

  She headed into her bedroom.

  Immediately she spotted something black in the middle of her bed. It brought her up short, and her knees nearly collapsed under her. No.

  She stepped closer. It didn’t move. It appeared to be organic—not plastic or rubber, not one of J.T.’s disgusting toys.

  She saw the rough texture of its skin, the bits of fur. Wings.

  A bat.

  Her stomach lurched. Was it alive?

  She tugged on the quilt. The bat didn’t move.

  And the horror swarmed in on her all at once. She couldn’t control it. Madison and J.T. were away, and she didn’t have to hold back. She tightened her hands into fists and yelled out in anger, disgust and shock. “Damn it, damn it, damn it. Whoever you are, I am not giving you the satisfaction of going to pieces. Not now, not ever!” She brushed back tears, gulped for air. No one could hear her. She was alone. “Damn it, I will not be afraid!”

  She coughed, choking back tears.

  A dead bat. In her bed.

  She tore around her room for something to use to dispose of it. Fury and horror consumed her. Someone had sneaked into her house, slipped down the hall to her first-floor bedroom and deposited a dead animal in her bed.

  She wanted to tear up the place. Rip out drawers, smash lamps, kick doors to pieces. She’d held back for so long. She was tired of being under control.